


wooden sword & exploding balls, and the night is ours for the taking

by Liatheus



Category: Gintama
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Frottage, M/M, Rimming, Smut, alternate universe - freeform, although feelings are constantly sneaking in, minor dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-11-05 14:56:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11015727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liatheus/pseuds/Liatheus
Summary: A series of GinZura smutty oneshots.Second instalment: ft. kitsune!Gintoki & prince!Katsura; fantasy AU"The scent was no longer possible to resist, permeating through the air like heat on sultry days deep in the middle of summer. It had been weeks and weeks now of drowning in its sweet allure: headier than twilight spring blossoms, richer than nectar, and smouldering with the musky tang of human blood, leaving him panting and sweating in the dark hours of the night.Enough."





	1. A drunk mind speaks a sober heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the start of my GinZura smut oneshot collection! This is a cleaned up, edited version of the GinZura smut piece I posted on [my tumblr](http://kuraiamore.tumblr.com) a few days ago. Apologies if you read that one there; reading over it, I caught some pretty embarrassing mistakes xD
> 
> This particular piece was inspired by some absolutely delicious material that [@rivertem](http://rivertem.tumblr.com) shared with me. She does some amazing GinZura artwork, so I highly encourage you to go check her out!

Even without the alcohol, Gintoki figures he could easily get drunk off the sight of Zura sprawled across his futon, belt untied, robes dishevelled and hanging off his shoulders, his long, dark hair a mess like spilled ink flowing rivers along pristine white sheets. It wasn’t quite how he had expected his night to go when he had left his apartment that evening for his usual weekend trip to the bars, but honestly, he can’t complain, quite literally, because he leans down right then to kiss Zura, thanking whichever deity granted him the luck of having Kagura spend the night at the Shogun’s Palace on the Princess’ invitation.

If Kagura had been home, there was no way Gintoki would have been able to bring Zura back, huffing and grumbling even as he cajoled the man with mocking words, much less allowed them to indulge in more drink from his alcohol stash whilst lounging on the cushy pad of his futon.

Alcohol makes Zura into a different creature, Gintoki thinks, threading his fingers through silky black strands and tasting the sweetness of the plum wine clinging to Zura’s tongue. Whenever Zura drinks, he melts, mind slipping slowly into a tipsy haze just as his body slips loose until he ends up draped over the nearest thing to him, soft and pliant, and so very, very intoxicating, as if his body turns into the very heat and liquid of the stuff he drinks.

It’s stupidly sensual, the way his skin seems to light up with a warm, sun-kissed glow and his cheeks turn pink, two summer blossoms blushing against a cool, golden sun. His eyes always gain a soft, sultry glaze, as if alcohol turns the world around him into some lush, magnificent place of pleasure. Gintoki still remembers the first time Zura had practically fallen into him like a honeybee into nectar, his breath smelling of the nashi pear undertones of the rice wine Sakamoto had haggled from a merchant they had passed along some dirt road through a village whose name he can no longer recall.

But he does recall—because there is no way he could forget—the next time they drank as triumphant soldiers under the glowing lanterns of a tavern in Awa Province even though he had been drunk (with youth and drink and the wild folly of victory). He must have been drunk; there could have been no other reason for him to have taken one look at Zura, flushed and glowing in the amber light, and pulled him, tripping over the bleary mass of inebriated men, all the way to their campsite and tent at the foot of the hills surrounding the seaside town, thrown him down onto their bedrolls and rutted against him like a dog in heat. And Zura had just laid there and smiled at him when he was done, even raised a hand and petted at his hair, before simply rolling over and falling asleep.

The morning after, Gintoki had waited with bated breath for Zura to pull him aside and lecture him on something stupid like proper samurai behaviour and duty and what it meant to wage a war. He had waited in vain, stewing in a stomach-roiling mix of anxiety and peevishness until he came to the conclusion that Zura just didn’t remember (and the clench of disappointment at the thought was so strong and unexpected, he had moped for another week. Even Takasugi had been nicer to him then.)

But then it happened again.

And again.

And every time they drank in high spirits thereafter, Zura always sitting a little closer to him as if waiting for the moment when alcohol would lower his inhibitions just enough to whisk him away into the closest empty shadow.

Even now, Gintoki uses the excuse: he’s drunk, he’s stupid, he’s drunkstupid, and Zura is too meek and agreeable under the influence of alcohol, always willing to give exactly what Gintoki wants to take when the heat in his throat and belly sinks lower and spreads between his legs. It doesn’t matter that his alcohol tolerance has gone up since his younger years, or that the amount he does drink when Zura is there to share the bottle with him is barely a fraction of his usual consumption on a standard night. As far as Gintoki’s aware, Zura only partakes in celebration or at someone’s invitation, and Gintoki is ninety-nine per cent sure that the wighead doesn’t have any friends who would call him out for a drink, much less seen and held the tipsy man the way Gintoki has.

The thought of Zura drunk with other men sends a dark flutter of jealousy and possessiveness through him, misplaced though he knows it is, and he takes it out on the man beneath him, biting down hard on Zura’s bottom lip.

(He’s learnt, too, through the years, just what and how Zura likes; where to touch with just the right amount of speed and pressure to make him cry and whimper, and doesn’t question the vicious pride he feels at knowing he can reduce Zura to a feverish, sobbing mess.)

Zura gives a little moan, reaching up and wrapping his arms around Gintoki’s shoulders, one hand snaking up to fist into fluffy silver hair. _Take that_ , he gloats to the imaginary men daring to hold Zura in his mind, satisfaction seeping through him. Mollified with himself, he runs his tongue over where his teeth had just been in silent apology, delighting in the little hum Zura makes at the action. They keep kissing, smooth and unhurried, tongues and lips pressing and licking and gliding over and over against each other. It’s as good and warm as alcohol, and just like alcohol, Gintoki knows he needs to be careful lest he become addicted.

Almost as if he read his mind, Zura immediately tests his willpower: his free hand starts stroking up and down Gintoki’s back, his legs spread open wider and he starts arching upwards, pressing himself firm and needy against the silver samurai’s body. Choking back a moan at the sudden wave of heat flooding through him, Gintoki responds with a hard grind, tugging on the dark strands wound in his fists. Their kiss breaks as Zura’s head is drawn back by Gintoki’s pull, a quiet moan that’s half sigh spilling from his lips.

Compelled by the sound, Gintoki licks and nips his way down Zura’s jawline to the exposed column of his neck, the taste of Zura’s musk and skin heady on his tongue. Their lower halves continue to undulate in slow, heavy rolls, causing flickers of arousal begin rippling through Gintoki’s body. He sucks hard and greedy just underneath Zura’s collarbone, satisfied only when he sees a bold, dark love mark blemishing the clear plains of Zura’s skin.

He sits up, quickly pulls off his belts, kimono and shirt, and throws them off to the side with a careless toss. Just as he’s about to dive right back into Zura’s pretty mouth, a loud clatter sounds. Zura jerks up immediately, eyes wide, and almost headbutts Gintoki in the process.

“What was that?” he asks, craning his head in the direction of the clang, though with how glazed over his eyes look, Gintoki doubts he’s really seeing anything.

Turning his own head, Gintoki catches sight of the bottle of _umeshu_ they had been drinking overturned, spilling its contents into his discarded kimono and shirt.

“Aw, shit!”

Scrambling up, Gintoki does an awkward, hurried crawl over to the sloppy mess and quickly uprights the bottle, droplets of the alcohol catching on his hand and dripping down to his wrist. Just over a third of the fruit wine still remains, sloshing around in the glass.

“Argh,” Gintoki laments, switching the bottle from one hand to the other and holding it carefully at the neck between the thumb and middle finger. Before he can shake off the droplets still clinging to his skin, however, a lightly tanned hand catches his wrist.

Gintoki watches, stunned and growing uncomfortably aroused, as Zura brings his hand up to his lips and _licks_ off the alcohol, alternating between small, kittenish swipes at the little bits of skin between his each calloused digit, and broad, sweeping strokes from the base of his wrist to the tops of his fingers. Zura pauses with the tip of his tongue just resting right on the point of Gintoki’s middle finger, the little spot of contact suddenly extraordinarily hot to Gintoki’s skyrocketing sensitivity, and glances at him from under the fall of his fringe with all the coquettish enticement of a Yoshiwara courtesan. Then slowly, as if with great deliberation, Zura sucks his finger into the wet warmth of his mouth, the velvety smooth texture of his tongue sliding hot against Gintoki’s knuckle.

With a rough growl, Gintoki pulls his hand free and practically pounces onto the rebel; they land in a tangle of limbs half-on the rumpled futon. The bottle Gintoki had completely forgotten he was still holding gets caught between, more plum wine splashing out and drenching both their chests.

Gintoki gets a wicked idea.

Ignoring Zura’s protests, he dodges the other man’s flailing hands, brings his mouth to Zura’s heaving chest and slurps up the spilled wine, smacking his lips in satisfaction and approval when Zura’s breath hitches. A wanton moan echoes in the room when Gintoki takes the chance to lap at Zura’s nipples, rolling one pink nub around with his tongue before switching to the other. His free hand reaches back up to the abandoned nipple and pinches hard.

“Mm, Gintoki, that’s—ah!”

Silencing Zura’s words with harsh nip, Gintoki pulls back and settles himself more comfortably between Zura’s legs, pushing away the layers of the samurai’s kimonos until his body is laid completely bare before Gintoki’s eyes but for his dark blue rokushaku fundoshi. Gintoki will never be able to decide if he finds it more adorable or ridiculous that Zura insists on wearing the traditional underwear even though boxers are far more comfortable and came in cute patterns, but in that moment,  it’s perfect. Zura’s cock strains against the thin fabric, forming an absolutely vulgar tent that makes Gintoki salivate.

Glancing back up, he sees Zura watching him, looking like the dictionary definition of seduction: hands clutching at the sheets on either side of his head, his hair mussed and wild, kiss-bruised lips red and glossy, the flush from his cheeks now spread all across his body and making the love mark Gintoki had sucked into his skin stand out all the more prominently. A thrill runs down Gintoki’s spine at the sight; he keeps his eyes locked with Zura’s as he brings the bottle up and pours a generous serving straight over the fundoshi.

Zura arches up with a gasp, shutting his eyes and throwing his head to the side. The thick, muscled cords of his thighs quiver invitingly; Gintoki puts the bottle aside and gets a grip on each of them, pushing Zura’s legs wider and spreading them in a perfect vee for him to kneel between. Blood pounding in his head, he buries his face into the soaked crotch, breathing deeply and relishing the mixed scents of sweetened alcohol and the rebel’s musky arousal. Zura’s pants and whimpers fill the room as Gintoki sucks and licks at his dick through the underwear, happily drinking down the liquid he can extract from the wet cloth.

When Zura’s start squirming underneath him, rocking his hips upwards into Gintoki’s face, he tugs the fundoshi to the side with his teeth. Zura makes a soft mewling sound as his cock springs free, and the helpless, overwhelmed quality to it sets off a spark in Gintoki’s dick. A grunt escapes his own throat as he rips off the fundoshi and throws it behind him; before the underwear even has time to land on the floor with a wet splat, Zura’s dick is in his mouth.

“Hah!”

Zura’s moans spurring him on, Gintoki slurps noisily at the head of his cock, one hand pumping at the base while the other palms his balls and rubs hard over his perineum. Zura’s knees knock into his shoulders as he writhes, the stomach muscles Gintoki can see contracting with every twitch and roll of his hips.

“Gintoki, c-close…”

At his words, Gintoki eases off, sitting up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Zura breathes heavily, a forearm thrown over his eyes, his cock straining against his stomach, his whole body trembling. Gintoki reflexively swallows at the sight, and the slight bitter taste of Zura’s pre-come underlying the sugary tingle from the plum wine suddenly makes his tongue feel thick and ravenous.

He grabs the bottle of _umeshu_ and checks its content level—there’s just under three fingers left in the bottle. Perfect.

“Gintoki…? What are you…?”

In lieu of an answer, he puts the bottle back down, wraps a hand under each of Zura’s knees, and pushes up until Zura is almost bent in half, arse high in the air.

“Gintoki! Wait, stop—!”

“Hold onto these for me,” he instructs, once again ignoring the protests of the man beneath him, though he sidles up and slips a knee under the curved body so that Zura’s weight isn’t entirely on his neck and shoulders.

“I—I really don’t think—ah!”

Zura yelps as Gintoki bites down one of the arse cheeks presented to him, then thankfully stops complaining and grabs hold of his own legs, blushing furiously. Grinning to himself, Gintoki moves one hand down to prise open the gorge of the fleshy cheeks with the spread of his fingers, the connected arm angled towards the small of Zura’s back to help further support his weight. The other hand reaches out to grab the wine bottle.

He takes a few seconds to admire the dark rosy bud of Zura’s arsehole, then pours half of the remaining liqueur over it. Even though he should have been expecting it, Zura lets out a shocked gasp, and his arse shakes, the liquid streaming rivulets down his crack only to be caught on Gintoki’s waiting tongue. Gintoki laps up the dripping alcohol greedily, his breath coming out in hot, panting puffs as he rushes to drink up every drop. When he finishes licking off every trace of plum wine, he laves his tongue over and over Zura’s hole, feeling it contract and expand with every passing swipe.

“G-Gintoki—nngh, ah! D-Don’t do tha- _ah!_ …It’s not— _mmnh_!—not clean, you shouldn’t— _hah_!”

A thrill passes through Gintoki at every slurred word and half-hearted protest he elicits whenever he fondles the tight ring under his mouth with his tongue, swirling around it and pushing at its centre with the tip of his muscle. He does it again and again until the hole finally begins to open up, then presses in even further, sucking hard at the outer ring. When his tongue is in as deep as he can get it, he pulls out and brings up a finger. He knows that he should be using lube, he knows, but Zura’s hole is wet and shiny with his spit, and he’s dizzy with either alcohol or Zura or both, and he can’t help but poke.

Zura’s body takes him in with hardly any resistance.

His dick throbs inside his pants and reminds him of his own need, but he hushes it to keep his attention on the man in front of him. Framed by his own thighs, Zura’s expression is one that Gintoki knows he’ll be remembering on lonely nights, open and lusty with arousal. Gintoki starts moving his finger: in and out, again and again, twisting and twirling it, all the while watching Zura’s face as his mouth gapes open and his eyelids shutter with pleasure. His heart thundering, Gintoki crooks his finger and feels another insistent throb in his dick when Zura throws his head back and moans, the sound deep and heady.

He works another finger into Zura, licking around the digits when the spit starts drying and Zura starts making little whines of discomfort, trying his best to keep the pain to a minimum. He brings his other hand up and tugs lightly on Zura’s dick as he accommodates to the stretch, hoping the distraction would help where lack of proper lube forced them to slow things down. Gradually, Gintoki begins to spread his fingers inside of Zura’s body, making sure to brush past his prostrate with every press and stretch to compensate for any pain.

Zura takes it all beautifully, squirming back on his fingers even as his legs quake in the air and sweat drips down his thighs and back. He can’t seem to stop the little whimpers and cries that spill from his lips with every sharp exhale.

Gintoki lets go of Zura’s dick at the same time as he withdraws his fingers halfway out of Zura’s arse. He scissors them as wide as Zura’s body will allow, opening up Zura’s hole. He licks at it once in warning, hears Zura’s stuttered breath, then grabs the wine bottle and pours the remaining alcohol straight into in, the mouth of the bottle almost sinking into the vulnerable opening between Gintoki’s stretched fingers. Chucking the empty bottle away as carelessly as he had with his clothes, Gintoki quickly grabs onto Zura’s hip with his free hand lest the dark-haired samurai drop his position from surprise, and dives straight back into slurping up the sweet liqueur from Zura’s body, sucking up the dribbling alcohol as enthusiastically as he would his favourite drink. His tongue plunge over and over into the sensitive orifice, chasing Zura’s taste and pleasure.

“Oh God, Gin!”

Hearing Zura shout out a diminutive form of his name does something to him, because Zura only ever says it (screams it, sobs it, moans it) when Gintoki’s worked him up to a frenzied wreck. He knows it’s probably kind of stupid, but when Zura calls out like that, the urge to fuck the long-haired man intensifies to the point where Gintoki can’t think of anything beyond needing to get his dick—his hard, aching dick—in him, fuck him through the floor and make him keep calling his name. (Gintoki knows he’s possessive, knows it and despairs of it, because Zura is the last person in the universe who would ever be willingly possessed by anyone.)

Ripping away from Zura with an obscene pop, Gintoki gently but hurriedly lowers his lover back to the floor, then stands up and swears loudly as he fumbles with the button of his pants and kicks them off along with his strawberry-print boxers. He practically runs the three steps to his closet because he needs the goddamn lube _now_ , tearing through his underwear to reach his stash of porn and other night materials. There’s a second of hesitation where his hand hovers over a condom, before he grabs it with the thought that he’s probably already made enough of a mess with the alcohol. Prizes in hand, he returns to see Zura fully slipping his kimono off his shoulder and crawling over to lay down properly on the futon.

Seeing a stretched out and very naked Zura in his bed sends a strange flutter through his chest, but it’s quickly drowned out by the ache between his legs and the animal instinct that drives him to the rebel’s side, anticipating the moment he can sink into the heat of Zura’s body. He kneels again between Zura’s thighs, throwing his legs over his shoulders and watching as Zura’s erection bounces on his stomach with the movement. Uncapping the tube, he drizzles lube over three fingers, and then more over the twitching hole in front of him.

Zura sighs, almost dreamily, when Gintoki presses two fingers back into him, thrusting them just to feel the smooth slide in and out. Soft cries begin building up again when Gintoki slips in the third finger,hands moving up to clutch at the top edge of the futon. His ankles dig into Gintoki’s back for leverage as his hips start moving, pushing back against Gintoki’s fingers.

Taking that as his signal, Gintoki rips the condom from the wrapper, rolls it over his cock and slicks himself up with more lube using quick, sloppy strokes, distracted at the vision of Zura’s eagerly waiting body. He shivers lightly as he lines up his dick against Zura’s hole, once again wet and glistening, the slight pressure at the tip of his cock already making a jolt of pleasure rush through him. A long, low moan rumbles through his chest and tumbles out his mouth as he pushes in, and god, Zura is so hot and soft and _tight_ , it takes every last ounce of his rapidly draining self-control to not simply pound into the smaller man like a jackhammer, tensing his muscles and concentrating on the fluttering details of Zura’s face as he takes him in to the root.

He has to take a moment to breathe, shutting his eyes at the sensation of being fully seated inside the other samurai, the walls of Zura’s inner muscles clenching around him. He thinks he can feel the pulse of Zura’s blood inside his body beating counter to his own racing heart, making his own dick throb in return. Slowly, he withdraws until only the flare of his head is still enveloped by Zura’s heat, and then thrusts back in with a hard shove.

They both moan at the force of the impact; Gintoki doesn’t waste any time building up a fast and furious rhythm, all restraint broken. He pushes up until he’s at the perfect fucking angle, weight on his arms and knees with his hands on either side of Zura’s face, then lets the aching need of his dick take over.  The loud smack of his hips and balls slapping into Zura’s arse drives a frantic beat to the wet squelching of their bodies as Gintoki drives into the rebel samurai again and again. The legs over his shoulder convulse and tighten as Zura arches up and grinds back in time to Gintoki’s hard thrusts, his chest heaving as he noisily sucks in air, and then his mouth opens and Gintoki finally gets exactly what he had been wanting since the first moment he saw Zura wandering the street that evening.

“Gin! Gin, oh god, Gin, please! Faster! G-Gin, _ah—_!”

 Gintoki groans and does just as he’s requested, speeding up his pace and aiming for that spot that makes Zura scream his name. Pleasure coils thick and fast in his lower belly, his balls feeling full and heavy. He grabs a hold of Zura’s arms, pulls them down from where they’re clutching the futon, and slips their fingers together, gripping hard.

“Zura,” he gasps out, rocking his hips powerfully in short, quick bursts and loving the way Zura moans and shudders beneath him, “Zura, you feel so fucking good.”

A keening whine spills out between Zura’s lips, his eyes shutting tight, a furrow deepening in his brow as if he can’t bear to hear Gintoki’s words, and Gintoki would feel like an idiot except Zura’s fully engorged dick jerks between their bodies. Gintoki looks down to see dribbles of pre-come trickling along the hard lines of Zura’s abs, his flushed dark cock bouncing with every thrust.

“Fuck, Zura,” he says again, and pumps his hips harder. Fuck, he’s close.

Zura makes an agonised, wretched noise that’s only just short of a scream. “ _Ah!_ Wait, gonna—gonna come—!”

Something half growl, half moan rips from Gintoki’s throat, rough and guttural; he bends over even further until he’s right in Zura’s face, noses brushing and foreheads pressed against each other.

“Call my name,” he says against Zura’s lips, begging and demanding all at once. “Call my name!”

Zura’s eyelids flick open, and there’s something just underneath the haze of pleasure and drink in those dear, hazel eyes that Gintoki can’t read, but then those eyes fall shut and Zura starts chanting his name, breathless and dazed.

“Gin! Gin—! Oh, _Gin.._!”

Zura comes hard and messy, his body trembling against Gintoki’s weight as he rides the waves of his orgasm, his hands returning the tight grip of Gintoki’s hold. Gintoki shudders as Zura’s arse clamps tight around his dick, and he almost loses it right then, but violently pushes down on the urge to feel the hot sound of his name on Zura’s lips.

Only when Zura sighs and goes completely lax does Gintoki let himself finally chase after his own peak, plunging ruthlessly into the sweet body beneath him. His own orgasm hits him barely a minute later, pleasure spiking up and down and all around him. Zura’s legs slip from his shoulders as he collapses forward onto the smaller samurai, hips still grinding into Zura’s arse as the final euphoric thrills skate through his slowly softening cock and the warmth of the afterglow settles deep into his bones and veins.

As he regains his breath, open-mouthed and panting against Zura’s shoulder, a hand reaches up and slowly threads through his hair. It’s odd, Gintoki reflects sluggishly, not for the first time, how Zura always pets at his hair when they’re done, as if needing to comfort him (and Gintoki will never admit it, but a part of him _does_ need the comfort, the tiniest gesture that Zura is okay with what they do, because any thought otherwise makes him want to burn in shame.)

“Gintoki,” Zura murmurs after a while, and the silver-haired samurai feels strangely bereft at being back to ‘Gintoki’ so soon, “heavy.”

“…ah, sorry, just let me, ah—” the squishiness between his thighs suddenly becomes highly uncomfortable and he gestures awkwardly between their bodies “—I’ll just go clean this up.”

Zura hums approvingly, gazing at him with half-lidded eyes; Gintoki carefully extracts himself from Zura’s soft body, pulling off the condom and tying it off.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, standing up and trying hard not to feel awkward in his own home.

Zura waves him off with another hum, though Gintoki pauses just a little longer to watch Zura sweep his long hair up from under his neck and fan it off to one side. Then he heads off to the bathroom, dumps the used condom in the bin and gives himself a cursory wipe down with a damp towel. Washing and wringing it, he takes it back to the bedroom and cleans up the dry semen on Zura’s stomach, wiping down over his groin and arse as well.

“Thanks,” Zura says sleepily after he’s done, throwing the dirty towel to the pile of alcohol-soiled clothing still cluttering his floor, “do you mind if I stay the night?”

What a stupid question, Gintoki thinks, averting his eyes and hoping that Zura would mistake the blush he can feel rising in his cheeks for the heat of sex and drink. Gintoki is not so failing in common decency that he would force Zura out onto the street right after their encounter, or with Zura looking as sweet and vulnerable as he does now, all soft lines and drowsy docility. (If it were up to Gintoki, no one would ever look on Zura as he is now, no one but Gintoki himself.) Still, he grumbles for show even as he grabs the blanket, pushed off and forgotten to the side, and pulls it over Zura.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he says, flicking off the lights and crawling under the covers, “not like you ever listen to me anyway.”

He gets no response; Zura’s breathing is deep and even. Gintoki does his best not to give in to temptation, but the warmth is just too hard to ignore; he edges closer until he can wrap an arm around Zura’s waist and pull the sleeping man flush against his own body. It only makes sense, he tells himself: the futon isn’t designed for two people, so they have to sleep close to each other, and this way Zura can’t steal the blanket in the middle of the night.

He falls asleep to the steady beat of Zura’s pulse under his hand.

When he wakes up, he is alone and his bedroom is clean. A small tray sits besides his futon holding a bottle of aspirin, a glass of water and a wrapped sandwich that’s clearly store-bought. A glance at his clock shows the time is just after nine-thirty in the morning. He leaves the aspirin but downs the water before getting up, pulling a towel from his closet and wrapping it around his waist. A shower and one set of fresh clothes later, he plonks himself on the couch, munching on the sandwich and flipping through last week’s Shounen Jump, which is right where Shinpachi finds him when the young boy walks through the Yorozuya doors an hour later.

“Oh, good morning, Gin-san,” Shinpachi says with an air of surprise, “I’m glad to see you’re awake, but I thought you went out last night?”

“Mmm,” Gintoki replies, turning a page.

Shinpachi sighs with a shake of his head. “Honestly Gin-san, if you’re up, you should be doing something useful or constructive. I know that you like lazy mornings, but mornings are really the best time to get things done.” As if to demonstrate his point, Shinpachi heads straight to the laundry room, presumably to get the supplies for the cleaning that takes place every time the budding samurai is in the office. His voice echoes back into the main room. “Gin-san, did you do the laundry last night? Your clothes are dry now. Do you mind if I fold them away for you? It’ll make getting things easier for me.”

“Yeah, sure, sure.”

A lull falls over the apartment. Gintoki turns a page.

“Hey, Gin-san, I’ve finished folding your clothes, but I was wondering what this is?”

It takes a few more seconds for Gintoki to finish scanning the page before he looks up and sees Shinpachi holding out a length of dark blue cloth.

He stares at it.

“…er, Gin-san? Are you okay?”

Jumping up, he snatches it away from Shinpachi’s hands and has it hidden behind his back before he even realises what he’s doing. The cotton fabric is soft between his fingers.

“…Gin-san?”

Gintoki doesn’t even register Shinpachi’s concern, too shocked at the fact that Zura _had left his underwear in his apartment_ , which meant that Zura _had walked out of his apartment without underwear on_ , and that meant that Zura _was walking around in public without underwear on_.

Something wet leaks out of his nose.

“Oh my god, Gin-san, you’re bleeding!”

He needs a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the somewhat abrupt ending; I couldn’t think of a better way to end it! Dx
> 
> Now at the risk of stating the obvious: **!!PLEASE DO NOT EVER POUR ALCOHOL UP YOUR OR ANYONE’S ARSEHOLE!!** It is extremely dangerous because you put yourself at increased risk of alcohol poisoning, and yes, people have died from this. 
> 
> Furthermore, despite what Gintoki does in this fic (although obviously Gintoki isn’t always the best of role models), **you cannot use alcohol as an excuse to have sex with someone.** If someone is drunk, they cannot give informed consent, and informed consent during any sexual activity (or anything else really) is very, very important. Obviously stories like the use the whole "I/we were drunk, oh no, now we're naked together! what do?!" trope, or to use alcohol as a way of getting characters to do/witness certain things, and that's fine, hell I even love it when it's well done, but we also need to be aware of how that kind of imagery can contribute to a culture that's very blasé about the damaging impacts of drunk sex and lead to some very harmful and negative experiences for people. 
> 
> I don't mean to sound like a nag, but I do think this kind of stuff should be repeated as often as possible, especially in the interests of responsible writing. 
> 
> That said, I do hope you enjoyed this, because I had a lot of fun writing it! Kudos and comments much appreciated!<3


	2. This I promise on the word of a fox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! Not dead and still definitely writing ginzura!
> 
> This oneshot fic inspired by, and dedicated to [@rivertem](rivertem.tumble.com) and her gorgeous ginzura fantasy artwork; check it out [here](http://rivertem.tumblr.com/post/164821325936/working-on-aus-with-my-friend-in-my-spare-time-x) & [here!](http://rivertem.tumblr.com/post/164975106986/more-au-scribbles-i-guess-3)
> 
> Chapter title taken from a story about a kitsune and her love I read while doing general research/getting further inspiration for this fic, called [The Fox in the Brothel](http://www.coyotes.org/kitsune/myths_japanese.html). It's a lovely story; I highly encourage you to read it if you have the time!
> 
> Please enjoy!

The scent was no longer possible to resist, permeating through the air like heat on sultry days deep in the middle of summer. It had been weeks and weeks--fucking _months_ \--now of drowning in its sweet allure: headier than twilight spring blossoms, richer than nectar, and smouldering with the musky tang of human blood, leaving him panting and sweating in the dark hours of the night.

Enough.

Stalking from his den, Gintoki follows the scent through the forest, skirting past the human village and their torchlit fires, taking the trail along the river, his tongue lolling from his mouth. The longer and further he runs, the more the scent seems to thicken, practically dripping syrup in his mouth by the time he reaches the gates of what he knows to be the Imperial Garden Villa, vacation house of the human Imperial Family.

He sniffs the air once, salivating when the deeper earth undertones of the scent send another lurch of _want_ dizzying through him. Still, he can smell others: the stench of human sweat cuts sharp and bitter against the cloying sweetness roiling on his tongue and whiskers.

Guards, he thinks, menservants and maids and another hundred human kits smelling of usual, ordinary human skin and flesh, a hundred more lingering, clashing odours wafting about in salty-sour perfumed hues. 

Given the chance, any one of them, with a single scream or drawn blade, could come between him and the source of the scent.

(Not that they could even hope to hold a candle to him, he, a creature of wit and strength and power beyond human comprehension. He’s not lived for over a thousand years for nothing, thank you very much.

Still, it would be unnecessary hassle to deal with such a nuisance, and already his patience is fraying.

He won’t leave here tonight without getting what he came for.)

He circles the periphery of the Villa twice, confirming the positions of all the living things in the palace grounds--he wouldn’t want to be disturbed too soon--then comes to a stop outside the western length of the gate, the scent spilling out to him from the palace wall in flowing waves.

The air is still.

Satisfied, he shifts, lengthening his limbs and cracking bone and nerve together as his joints dislocate and realign. His rear paws flatten and stretch into feet; his metacarpals flexing themselves into human hands, claws for nails. His snout disappears into a long, straight nose and thin, pouty lips, fur retracting into smooth, clear pale skin.

He gives his human shape a quick stretch, then plucks starlight and shadow and weaves them into robes.

(Humans have a thing about nudity, he knows, and one should always be courteous when visiting a new friend.)

He rakes a hand through the tufts of his human hair, fluffing up the wavy strands even more, then takes a deep breath. The scent floods his senses once more, and he follows its call, gathering power into his feet and leaping over the gate. His tails curl for balance, and he lands on the side of the palace wall, digging into the stone and mortar with his claws and hearing it crack beneath him. He climbs fast, the scent urging him to an open window on the third floor, one of the few shining with light. Another jump, and he lands silently on the sill, eyes already roaming to find the source of the scent.

Long black hair half-bound by white silk falls straight and thick down narrow shoulders covered by forest green cotton to pool against bare white feet. The human is seated on a cushion by a low ornate table holding two candles, back turned to Gintoki. The kitsune grins, feeling his body thrum in anticipation.

“Good evening.”

The human jumps and twists to face him with a sharp intake of breath, rocking the table with their movement and sending melted wax splashing out the sides of the candle holders. As the human fumbles with the open scroll in his hands, rolling it back up and setting it on the table, Gintoki takes the opportunity to examine them.

‘Handsome,’ is the word that springs immediately to mind, possibly ‘beautiful’ even, as he gazes at softly defined cheeks, a small rounded nose, smooth lips, and even jawline drawing out a pretty, heart-shaped face. When the human finally looks up and meets his gaze, Gintoki sees doe hazel eyes shimmering amber gold in the candlelight.

Unable to stop himself, Gintoki steps down from the window sill, one step closer to the scent that had been slowly driving him mad for months.

Immediately, the human recoils, hand sweeping out as if in search for some weapon of self-defence. Finding nothing but air, the hand clenches into a fist and the man glares challengingly at him, chin raised.

“Who are you?” he demands. “How did you get here?”

“Surely you’ve heard of me,” Gintoki says, letting his nine silver-white tails fan out wide and frame his body. “Silver hair, nine tails, all the powers of the gods.” He pauses. “Deliciously handsome mug.”

The human’s eyes go wide, the black frame of his eyelashes curving in awe and disbelief.

“S...Shiroyasha,” he says, the name spilling into the space between them with a rush of breath.

Gintoki straight up purrs.

“So you _do_ know of me, human,” he says, an open-mouthed smirk cutting into his face and showing off the sharp point of his canines.

The human gulps. “Of course I know of you,” he returns, voice wavering only slightly. “You’re legendary.”

Gintoki preens, slinking closer to the human until he stands over him, looking down. So close, the scent seems to coalesce into a shimmery haze under his celestial eyes, a whirling, intoxicating miasma demanding his hunger.

“I’m so glad to hear,” he simpers, then lets his voice drop deeper, sultrier, as he sinks down onto a single knee, tails still fanned out behind him.  “So you would be most willing to serve this legend, yes?”

He leans in further until his lips hover barely a hand’s length from the shell of the human’s ear, and inhales deep through his nose. His blood revels at the man’s shocked intake of breath, and he draws back to catch sight of apprehension dawning on the man’s face. Quickly, he brings one arm up to bracket the man’s side, hand pressing into the table’s edge.

The man’s eyes flick down to the arm cutting off the space on his left side, then up again to directly face Gintoki’s stare. There’s a hard edge to them that could be calculation or defiance; somehow, it makes Gintoki’s blood thrill at the thought.

“I don’t understand,” the man says, eyes furrowing, “do you require something from the Imperial House? If so, I can arrange an audience with the Emperor; you need only give me some time.”

Even with arousal curling thick in his body and his restraint rapidly diminishing, Gintoki can’t help but bark a laugh at the transparent earnestness in the man’s expression, and his seeming inability to read the atmosphere of the room.

“Aah, what if I said I came here tonight to have an audience with you?” Gintoki says, leering down as lewdly as he can.

The man doesn’t bat an eyelash.

“The Katsura-no-miya House takes its duties to the Heavens and the celestial beings with the utmost of reverence and severity,” he says, suddenly sitting up straight, shoulders arching back and squaring. The change in posture brings his face even closer to Gintoki’s, his scent sparking under Gintoki’s nose; it takes everything in the kitsune to not pounce on the man right then and there, looking down at such earnest hazel eyes. “I would be most honoured to hear you, Shiroyasha, on behalf of the Imperial House.”

“Oh? And just who are you to be able to represent on behalf of the Imperial House?”

To Gintoki’s surprise, the man averts his eyes and _blushes_ , a full pink bloom spreading out across his cheeks and blending into the shadows curving down the sides of his face. Curiosity peaked, he ignores the throbbing between his legs, purposefully not thinking about the man blushing for other, more _provocative_ reasons, and brings up the claws of his free hand to stroke softly against the rosy flush.

“Now this is an interesting reaction,” he observes, skimming his claws up to gather the hair framing the side of the man’s face and tucking them behind the shell of a petite ear. “Tell me, human. What’s your name?”

The man turns his face away, his head tilting slightly to the side with the movement and breaking the contact between them. Gintoki feels his smirk grow wider and drops his hand away slowly, letting long black strands trail lightly in the inner curve of his fingers.

The seconds tick by as the man stays silent, suddenly no longer willing to meet Gintoki’s eyes.

“Reluctant to tell me, huh? This is the legendary Shiroyasha you have the honour of talking to, you know,” Gintoki says, only half teasing. “What happened to your duties to the Heavens and the celestial beings, huh? Part of those duties should be introducing yourself, yanno, though really, that’s just polite manners. Seriously, what kind of people at they letting into the Imperial House today, who don’t even remember to introduce themselves upon meeting the legendary Shiroyasha?”

Immediately, the man’s eyes widen and his head swivels back to face Gintoki so fast the kitsune wonders how he didn’t give himself whiplash, his long hair fluttering in a wave around him. Something sharp and fiery spikes underneath the sweetness of his scent, wild ginger suddenly taking root in a field of spring blossoms.

Gintoki bites down on his tongue to stop the groan that wants to spill from his lips, wondering just how much damn power the man has for his scent to be able to drive a supernatural being like him almost out of control like this--and he barely seems aware of it, the idiot, expression still damnably innocent of the craving coursing through the kitsune’s body.

So busy battling with himself, Gintoki almost misses the man’s next words.

“Forgive me, Shiroyasha, I did not mean to appear so rude with my lack of introduction,” the man says, a hint of distress leaking through in the grave tone of his voice and the pinched corners of his eyes. “I can assure you that every member of the Imperial Family and its staff and household is entirely devoted to the Heavens and the celestial beings. I am merely—”

He cuts himself off, biting down on his bottom lip, eyes downcast.

Gintoki’s vision narrows down to the single action, hardly registering how his tongue darts out to lick his own bottom lip.

“Yes?” he prompts, moving closer still, their knees now almost touching, “you are merely…?”

The man suddenly seems to notice the lack of space between them, a spark of alarm flashing through his eyes as he tries to jerk back and bangs his elbow into the table behind him. A shoulder of his kimono loosens and slips to reveal the dip of a collar bone, the small patch of unexpectedly bared skin immediately drawing Gintoki’s attention. The weight of the scent Gintoki had managed to ignore for the better part of their conversation floods back into his senses in full force, a low growl emitting from his throat before he can stop it.

“Okay,” he says, exhaling hard, “nevermind that. You know why?”

Gintoki sees the man’s mouth open, but keeps talking before he can get a word out.

“Because tonight, you’re mine.”

“Wait, what—”

Seizing his chance, Gintoki closes the space between their faces with a lunge, slipping his tongue into the man’s open mouth and finally, _finally_ , tasting the maddening sweetness that had plaguing his days and nights for who even knew how long.

It’s straight up electrifying, sheer, unadulterated bliss as he licks against tongue and teeth and lip, drinking in the scent of thunderstorms and scorched earth, wildflowers and koshu wine, and the essence of heavenly power he can feel thrumming underneath it all. The man struggles against him, trying to turn his head away, arms coming up to push futilely against Gintoki’s chest. The kitsune has the power of the Heavens swirling within him, after all, not to mention over a thousand years of being a stubborn, insufferable bastard.

Unbidden, both of Gintoki’s hands come up to grip the man’s shoulders; one slides up under the fall of black hair to cup the back of an elegant neck, holding the man in place as Gintoki continues to kiss and ravish him. The man’s lips are moving beneath him, probably in protest or indignation, but between the slips of Gintoki’s tongue and the smack of Gintoki’s mouth, he can get out little more than soft whining hums and sharp hitches of breath. The sounds spur Gintoki on more than he ever believed they could, and he presses closer, shoving himself right between the man’s legs.

They're both panting hard when Gintoki pulls back for breath, licking his lips as he looks down at the man’s flushed face. His chest is heaving, reddened lips gaping open as he sucks in mouthfuls of air, eyes staring wildly at Gintoki. His hands are trapped tight between their bodies, the length of his kimono rumpled by the forced spread of his legs. Glancing down, Gintoki spies the peep of a bare thigh; something must shine in his eyes, because the man looks down too, following Gintoki’s line of vision. He makes a noise like a squeak when he catches sight of his bare legs, nails scrabbling at Gintoki’s chest as he tries to free his arms and hands.

“Shiroyasha! Wait, please, what—?!”

Gintoki shuts him up again with another kiss, wondering why the man is still trying to ask questions when the kitsune’s desires and intentions are so blatantly clear. The scent has changed again, the cutting base note of distress and indignation giving way to wild peppery confusion and shock. His train of thought changes, a surge of excitement thinking about what the man’s arousal would smell and taste like.

New craving in mind, he rocks his hips forward and pulls the man into his lap, the silk and cotton of their robes offering hardly any resistance as Gintoki’s groin slides hard against the man’s.

“Ah!”

A soft cry escapes the man’s mouth as he tears his face away from Gintoki and sucks in a deep breath. On reflex, he pushes back against the pressure of Gintoki’s body, his legs flexing and trembling on either side of the kitsune’s mortal form as if to throw the heavenly being off, his presumed plan completely backfiring as the movement sparks pleasure all down the line of Gintoki’s cock. Growling at the sensation, Gintoki moves a hand back up into the man’s hair, winding claws and fingers through the tresses at the base of the man’s skull, and grips hard.

“Ow, ow, that hurts, please let go—mmph!”

Another forced kiss, using his hold on the man’s hair to angle his mouth perfectly against Gintoki’s own, letting him nip and lick at reddened, glistening lips as he pleases. He starts up a slow, toe-curling grind between them, rolling his hips up and letting the man feel the evidence of his arousal in full, undulating strokes.

This time, when Gintoki breaks apart for breath, the man whimpers. He feels blunt nails dig into his chest, his robe pulled tight as fingers curl and clamp onto the fabric, holding on dear for life. More soft noises spill from the man’s lips as Gintoki continues to rut into him, high pitched, breathless, and smouldering. Gintoki finds himself grinning, all teeth and clever tongue.

“Took you long enough to shut up and get with the program,” he says, watching in delight as the blush on the man’s face deepens even as the line of his mouth arcs into a frown.

“Shiroyasha,” the man starts again, shaking his head slightly, eyes scrunching against the furrow of his brow. Whatever he had planned to say next is lost in a gasp as Gintoki rolls his hips in another hard grind, using the leverage he has on the man’s shoulder and hair to force the man’s body to move with him.

 Still, Gintoki admonishes him for even making an attempt at talking again instead of just succumbing completely and utterly to Gintoki’s advances; he leans up at bites, rough and unkindly, up the line of the man’s jaw. Then he trails back down with open-mouthed kisses, soothing over the raw skin with warm swipes of his tongue. The man’s breathing hitches, another whimper sounding in the space of the small study, and the maddening scent in the air shifts again.

Intoxicating, irresistible, impossible sweetness, making Gintoki’s head spin like that time he had consumed a whole tree of too-ripe plums, their centres flowing with dripping, fermented juices that had him drunk for days. He’s drunk now, can barely pull together a coherent thought beyond utterly _devouring_ the sweetness in front of him, and then he feels it: a hard, throbbing length pressing back against his own, rubbing insistently with every roll of their hips.

A moan breaks loose all the way from the back of his throat, and he loses himself to raw, animalistic need. He yanks hard on the man’s hair and pulls his head all the way back, exposing the long column of his throat. The man yelps in pain and shock, his grip on Gintoki’s robe tightening. Urged on by the heat roiling in his lower half, Gintoki drops his free hand down to the fatty curve of an inner thigh, the tips of his claws pressing into the soft flesh. He runs his hand swiftly down to the underside of the man’s knee, scratching even light pink lines into the pale skin, then grasps beneath the joint and pushes firmly upwards and outwards.  

The man cries out again as his legs are spread wider and Gintoki grinds up with even greater pressure, no longer hindered by the man’s tense, straining muscles surrounding him. The intensity of the sweetness increases, the air feeling thick like honey, and so, so _hot_.

Hardly aware of himself, Gintoki rubs his face into the length of the man’s neck, still held vulnerable and open by the kitsune’s heavenly strength. Compelled to taste, he laves his tongue all over the expanse of skin, feeling quivering tendon and rapid pulse thrumming beneath his lips. He plants sloppy, open-mouthed kisses up and down the pale neck, kisses that turn into bruising sucks and bites spreading up across the man’s jawline, then down to his collarbone and the dip of his chest. He noses off the length of kimono still covering the man’s torso, the green cotton robe falling to hang off the man’s elbows, then spills lovemarks across the junction of neck and shoulder before running tongue, teeth and lips down to nip, kiss and lick over perky, pink nipples.

“Ah, Shiroyasha! No, wait, please— _hnn—_ please don’t leave, _ah_ , marks—! No, wait, not there— _ah!_ ”

The man’s protests trail away into more titillating sounds of pleasure, one of his hands abandoning its grasp on Gintoki’s robe to burrow itself instead into the fluffy silver-white hair strands of Gintoki’s hair, right between his fox ears. The tug of his hair sends a thrill racing down Gintoki’s spine, all the way into the nerves of his nine tails, each luxurious length of moonlight fur curling and shaking in clear display of his bliss and delight.

With the man clinging so desperately onto him, Gintoki lets go of his grip on the man’s hair and instead works his hand between their bodies, loosening both their belts and pushing away the folds of their kimonos. He lets out a grunt when his erection springs out into the air, already dripping and wet with pre-come from their rutting. The man makes a noise that’s something like a cross between a squeal and a whimper when Gintoki’s cock rubs into the bare skin of his leg, smearing a glistening line of clear fluid near the scratches his claws had left earlier.

He makes the same noise again when Gintoki starts tugging at the wraps of the man’s fundoshi, thumbing against the contour of the man’s hard cock.

“Ah?!” The fingers in Gintoki’s hair scrape hard against his scalp. “Is that really necessary?!”

“Ha? You’re still going on like that, ah? What, you never— _nnmh—_ done this before? You a virgin or something?”

Gintoki doesn’t expect the man’s embarrassed whine, nor the way he buries his face into Gintoki’s hair as if unable to bear the scrutiny of the kitsune’s crimson eyes, his long black hair falling all around them and brushing past Gintoki’s cheeks.

_Oh._

For a moment, something demonic and possessive twists in his stomach, and the desire to _mark as his_ makes the back of his teeth tingle, but then the man squirms, hips rocking forward into Gintoki’s touch, and the madness dissipates. Gintoki’s attention is drawn back to the straining cock hidden by dampened fabric, waiting to be uncovered by his hand.

“Okay,” he says, tilting his face up to kiss at the bright bruises now decorating the man’s neck, “it’s alright, I’ve got you.”

The man gives a soft whine that sounds almost like a sob to Gintoki’s fox ears, and clutches onto him harder, releasing his hold on Gintoki’s robe and wrapping his arm around the kitsune’s shoulders. Enveloped completely by the man’s sweetness, Gintoki lets the last of his self-control drop, ripping off the man’s fundoshi and reveling in the unobstructed musk of the man’s arousal. The breathy rush of a gasp at his ear, and he aligns their erections together and grips them both tight in his hand.

The slick slide of their cocks and the pressure of his grip has them both moaning and panting, their hips thrusting together in a frantic, glorious rhythm. The man’s whole body is undulating against him; Gintoki can smell and taste his sweat as it flows in rivulets down his neck. He runs his thumb over the slits of both their heads, pleasure curling at the way the man shivers with every swipe. His hand is soaked in minutes, liquid beginning to trickle down his wrist.

“Shiroyasha,” the man begs, hips moving harder, “Shiroyasha, please—!”

“I’ve got you,” Gintoki repeats, pressing a sloppy kiss to the man’s throat.

The words trigger something in the man: he cries out loudly, thrusts up once, twice more, and comes messy between them. The scent spikes, crashing and overwhelming, Gintoki drowning in the most potent of sweetened wines. He barely even registers when he comes himself, blacks out for a long, blissed out second under the assault of the scent, and floats back to consciousness into the warm, simmering heat of his body.  

The lovely, pulsating sensation of the afterglow throbs gently in his cock, still pressed warm against the man. They’re still tangled into each other, the man slumping where he sits in Gintoki’s lap, his arms still clinging tight around Gintoki’s shoulders. He breathes slow and deep; Gintoki can feel the rise and fall of the man’s chest with every inhalation and exhalation. The man’s scent seems to have softened too, sweetness lulling to the delicate aroma of apple blossoms, or perhaps Gintoki has merely become desensitised.

Gintoki lets the man lean on him while he catches his breath, playing with the loose strands of his hair, content to linger.

The wax of the candles on the table have dwindled to stumps when the man finally moves, leaning back and unlatching his hold on Gintoki’s head and shoulders. The kitsune’s eyes are drawn towards the man’s jaw, neck and upper torso, tracing patterns in the colourful marks he’d left all across the pale skin.

The man clears his throat, pulling Gintoki’s gaze to his face--the red still staining his lips, the light blush still dusting his cheeks, and the low glimmer shining in his eyes.

“They say you fell from the Heavens.”

Even through his orgiastic daze, a sort of fearless curiosity and childish naivety colours the man’s voice, his eyes darting from the fox ears resting atop Gintoki’s head to the curl of the tails resting over his shoulders as if searching for some sign of his fall.

“They say you incurred the Heavens’ wrath after losing yourself in fire and bloodlust,” the man continues, seeming to speak more to himself than to the celestial fox in front of him, “and that you were stripped of the gold of the Tenko and sentenced to eternity on Earth. I’ve also heard say that your nine tails turned silver instead of gold when you reached the celestial age of the fox, and made an outcast from the Heavens.” The man pauses, looking at Gintoki with bright, inquisitive eyes. “But my favourite story is the one where you sacrificed your golden power to protect the Earth against the demon crows, and when the flames were vanished and the land restored, the Heavens and the celestial beings wept for three seasons, mourning the loss of one of their own.”

Of all the things he could have imagined any person to do or say in the aftermath of his desire, the legends of Shiroyasha being recited so blithely, so nonjudgmentally to his face is most definitely not on his list. Once his surprise subsides, Gintoki bristles, tails quaking and fox ears flattening slightly with mild annoyance.

“What kind of thing is that to say to someone right after they’ve given you the best orgasm of your life, huh?” he grouses, flicking the man’s brow. “Shut up, you’re ruining the moment.”

The man frowns, rubbing at his forehead.

“I didn’t realise we were having a moment.” He straightens up, pulling up his kimono and securing it modestly around his shoulders. “Shiroyasha—”

“Gintoki.”

“...I’m sorry?”

“Don’t you think we’re past formalities now? Stop it with all that ‘Shiroyasha’ shit, no one’s got time to be called that. My name’s Gintoki.”

“...Gintoki.” His name is spoken hesitantly, each syllable sounded out carefully.

Gintoki’s ears twitch; he thinks it must have been over two hundred years since anyone’s called him by his true name. There’s a warm, squirmy feeling in his belly that has nothing to do with the heat still lolling around in his groin. He pokes the man again.

“Well? What’s your name then? Remember how we had this conversation about manners before? When someone tells you their name, you’ve got to tell them yours back, it’s all about manners.”

“My name…”

Just like before, the man averts his gaze, his shoulders hunching over protectively. Gintoki frowns.

“Oi, oi, the hell’s this, ah? You keep acting like you’ve got something to hide and it’s making me anxious.”

The man looks genuinely rueful.

“Forgive me, Shiroya—Gintoki,” he says again, echoing his reaction from earlier, “I—”

Whatever the man plans on saying is cut off once more as Gintoki slaps a hand over his mouth, shushing him with a hiss. His fox ears swivel on his head, picking up the sounds of dull, heavy footsteps heading in their direction.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispers.

The man’s eyes go wide, and he wrenches himself away from Gintoki, standing up and hurriedly fixing his clothing.

“You’ve got to go,” he says urgently, pulling off his fundoshi completely and dropping it onto the floor.

It takes several long seconds for Gintoki’s brain to process the words, all his blood threatening to run south again as his eyes lock onto the sight of the man’s soft cock. The vision gets disrupted as the man smooths out his kimono, wrapping it firmly around his body and tying it off quickly with his belt. A hand goes up to his hair and pulls off the wrinkled ribbon still somehow holding his hair back; the long black strands tumble over his shoulders like a waterfall, obscuring part of his neck and jawline in shadow.

Gintoki tries not to feel the strange stab of disappointment at losing sight of his marks, concentrating instead on the man in front of him.

“Oi, are you alright? You’re not in danger or anything, are you? A prisoner of the Imperial House or something?”

“What? No, of course not, why would you think that?” The man leans over the table and blows out one of the candles.

“Cause you’re acting really fricking suspicious here, is why.”

“Oh, am I?” His tone is distracted as the man pockets the scroll into his kimono sleeve, then blows out the other candle. He turns around, catching Gintoki’s silhouette against the moonlight streaming through the open window. “Why haven’t you gone yet?”

“‘Gone yet’? What, you’re throwing me out just like that? And none of this talk is making me feel inclined to leave, you know!”

“I never invited you in in the first place! And please, trust me. I’m not in any danger, but you have to go. I can’t be caught here.”

There’s something in the man’s tone that makes Gintoki believe him, even if he doesn’t like it; he harrumphs, his night vision allowing him to sidle up to the man and brush the back of his hand against his cheek, breathing in the sweetness of his scent once more.

“Alright,” he says.

For a split second, the man leans back into his touch, then he’s being shooed out the window.

“Go,” the man urges, then turns his back to Gintoki, picking up his dropped fundoshi and sneaking to the door on the other side of the room.

Gintoki watches from the windowsill as the man slips out of the room, tracking the light sound of his footsteps against the heavy tread that had interrupted them. He doesn’t leave until the all is quiet on the Villa grounds, the air still once more. Then he leaps into the night sky, letting his robes fade back to starlight and shadow, and shifts mid-air. He lands outside the gates of the Imperial Garden Villa on four silver-white paws gleaming in the moonlight; with residual sweetness tingling on his tongue, he begins the long trot back to his den.

*******

At the rise of the midday sun, a beautiful young lady saunters into the village situated near the gentle rush of the Shō River, her peony pink kimono warmed by the afternoon glow. Two startlingly silver pigtails fluff out from the sides of her head, hiding her wry smile from curious eyes as she bows before the village’s Inari shrine. When no one is watching, she casually steals a fresh offering of abura-age from the large fox statue guarding the shrine entrance, slurping down the fried tofu and sweet soy while she looks up with bored dead-fish eyes at the statue towering above her.

Dropping the now-empty dish, she makes her way through the village; the village residents, used to her mysterious coming-and-goings and her otherworldly appearance, wave and nod at her in acknowledgement, while the travellers and passersby openly gawk, several double takes causing men to trip over their own feet and crash into the ground. She hides her snicker behind a delicate wrist and silk sleeve, then continues on her meandering way to the village centre and its bustling marketplace. As she makes rounds of the market stalls and their merchants and various wares, the day’s gossip flitters through the air to her ears.

“—seemed to be a commotion at the Imperial Garden Villa this morning—”

“—heard they sent out word to hire more rōnin to patrol the Villa grounds—”

“—marks on the Villa walls—”

“—my friend is a maid, and she said that one of the girls thought she saw a creature leap over the Villa gates during the night!—”

“—members of the Imperial Family living there—”

“—hiding someone—”

“—the scandal of the Katsura House!—”

The young lady stops in front of a free-standing stall on the outskirts of the marketplace, the pine planks of the wood well worn and carrying the scars of decades of brawling customers, scratches and indents running jagged across its surface. Six small stools are set in a line down one side of the stall along an open bar, two more stools rounding the corner at the stall’s front. Beside those two stools, packets filled with assorted edible foodstuffs make up a small horde of colourful and tasty treats, dried fruits, nuts, cookies, crackers and pieces of crystalised sugar of varying flavours further spilling onto the table bench making up the stall’s final side, all artfully arranged to catch the eyes of wandering customers. At the back of the stall, two high shelves are lined with saké bottles, their elegant labels proudly turned to face normally the quiet street, now loud and jostling with the midday crowd. Outside the stall, a simple sign reads: ‘Snack Otose’.

Throwing herself into one of the stools at the front of the stall with a gracelessness belied by her appearance, the lady calls out to the older woman manning the stall, smoking where she seats on an old, rickety chair by the back shelves.  

“Oi, Granny! Get that pipe out of your mouth before you die smelling like shitty smoke; you got a customer here, oi!”

The older woman, magnanimous owner of Snack Otose, levels the young lady an unimpressed stare.

“Is that you, Paako? Unless you’re here to pay off your tab from three months ago, get out of my shop.”

“Aw, don’t say that, Granny,” Paako says cajolingly. “I’m so good for business, after all.”

As if on cue, a young man, a traveller from the upper merchant class judging by the fine weave of his cloak and the brand new, ornate sword dangling by his hip, slides into the seat next to her.

Otose doesn’t even bother raising her eyebrows as Paako engages the man in light conversation, ordering drinks for the both of them. She merely pulls cups from shelves below the stall’s benches and pours them her cheapest liquor. Then she waits, watching as the man becomes increasingly disenchanted and alarmed by the beautiful young lady’s loud, uncouth and creative mouth, panic growing clear in his face.

“—and then he thought he could just whip out his Neo Armstrong Cyclone Jet Armstrong Cannon in front of me and not have me snap off his filthy balls. Honestly, rōnin today!”

“Ah, truly,” the man says weakly, then stands up abruptly, fumbling with his coin pouch and dropping a silver piece on the table, “well, would you look at the time! I’m so sorry, miss, but I must be heading off!”

Paako makes a noise of surprise. “But you haven’t even finished your drink yet!”

“Oh, uh, it’s, uh, urgent business, I really have to go. Lovely talking to you, Miss, goodbye!”

“Ahhh, but I haven’t paid you back yet,” Paako says boredly to the man’s retreating back. She drains the rest of her cup, picks up the silver piece, and waves it in front of Otose’s face. “This has gotta be at least a month off my tab, right?”

Otose merely grunts in noncommittal agreement, snatching up the silver piece and depositing it in the lacquered money box hidden at the bottom of the shelf. At the same time, she pulls out one of her favourite saké brands, refilling Paako’s cup and pouring herself a drink.

“So? What brings you back to the village other than swindling poor unassuming men out of their life savings?”

“Hey, don’t blame me, it’s not my fault if they can’t keep their brains out of their hakama.” She waves a dismissive hand, taking a sip of her saké. “What’s up with the village today anyway? People seem louder than normal.”

Otose mirrors the movement. “Gossip, rumours, the usual. People never know when to keep their business to themselves.”

“Oh?” Paako’s eyes glint, squinting fox-like for a quick second. “What kind of gossip?”

“What, you mean you haven’t heard already?” Otose shrugs, like she couldn’t tell less, the smoke of her pipe curling in the air. “Rumour’s been going around that something snuck into the Imperial Villa grounds last night, and the Imperial Family’s gone paranoid. Calling in extra rōnin to guard the gates. Doesn’t help to quell the rumours from last season.”

Paako leans forward, resting her chin in an upturned hand. “And what were last season’s rumours?”

“Oh, right, you weren’t here last season were you? Mind you, this is all hearsay probably spun from the hearts of romantic fools, but so it goes: the Emperor is keeping someone hidden on the Villa grounds. Some say his lover, others say it’s his love child, from an affair with an oiran, during the folly days of his youth. They all claim to have seen a person of great beauty and sadness sitting beneath the blossoms of the Villa trees.” Otose shrugs again, tapping the ash out of her pipe. “They call him the Illegitimate Katsura Prince, though like I said, it’s all just rumours.”

The sounds of the village centre echo in the distant, the two woman sipping at their drinks. Paako turns her face upwards, staring at the blue sky.

“These rumours,” she says slowly, contemplatively, “do they give this Prince a name?”

Otose gives her a long inquiring look which she stubbornly ignores.

“They do,” the old woman finally says, still watching the young lady curiously.

“And what is it?”

“Kotarou. Katsura Kotarou.”

***

As the sun begins its slow descent down from the Heavens’ summit, a young woman dressed in pink with silver hair walks along the crooked trails behind the village leading to the banks of the Shō River. Her tread leaves behind light footprints in the sandy dirt, shadowed by the overgrown ferns and grassy plants competing with each other for ground and sunlight. When she reaches the river, she looks around, to her sides and behind her shoulders, and seeing no one, takes off her sandals and socks, and steps into the running water.

Her footwear slips out of her hands and flows downstream, quickly disappearing from sight. As she moves further into the river, water rising and rushing all around her, she begins to undo the ties of her kimono, letting them slip from her body until they too are washed away. Naked, she keeps walking, until the water rises over the top of her head and even the shimmery glint of her silver strands are lost from view. The river flows on, the sound of its waters a gentle, even tempo.

The sun moves an inch in the sky, and on the other side of the river bank, a silver fox with nine tails emerges from the water. It gives a rough, full-body shake, sending water droplets falling everywhere, and stops, sniffing at the air. A quiet growl slips out of its mouth, then it leaps off in a wild run, disappearing into the forests beyond.

 

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! :D It was actually meant to be a lot darker, without so much, well, I wouldn't call it 'plot'—worldbuilding, perhaps? But it seems I'm incapable of writing pure smut when it comes to these two (god, Gin never shuts up!) so yeah xD
> 
> As always, kudos and comments much appreciated!<3


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